


Before the First Snowflake Falls (I'll Always Find My Way Back to You)

by slashedsilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-War, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashedsilver/pseuds/slashedsilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco knows this thing with Potter will end. He just wants to cling on to it as long as he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the First Snowflake Falls (I'll Always Find My Way Back to You)

**Author's Note:**

> Dear pinch hitters, thanks for making this fest so much more amazing! This fic started out life gifted to someone else, but I'm glad it will find a home in you. It was a pleasure to write, and has easily become one of my favourites.
> 
> Endless thanks to my beta, eidheann_writes, who made this fic read so much better than it did before!
> 
> Written for the prompt: _He was gone before the snowflake touched the ground._

He's eighteen, and the best thing that has ever happened to him is this: Potter's lips on his, hand buried in his hair, saying all the things Draco's always wanted to hear. _Yes,_ Harry gasps, and _more,_ and _I want you, Draco Malfoy_.

He doesn't even know how they'd gone from shouting and throwing punches at each other to kissing and touching and biting and moaning. It's beyond what he's ever dared to imagine. Draco hopes Harry doesn't hear half of the things he's babbling in the heat of their exchange. He hopes Harry doesn't hear the _always_ , the _yours_ , and in that one moment of weakness— _I love you_.

How long can it last? The Boy Who Lived and an ex-Death Eater. There's a countdown hanging over their heads. Draco doesn't dare to think of forever. He longs for it—oh of course he does, no matter how far down he's buried that blasted emotion. In his dreams; in his fantasies; when they're here together like this, arms and lips on each other, when it feels that Harry is his and he is Harry's, and there isn't a whole outside world just lying in wait, ready to pounce and rip that fragile thing they have to shreds. At times like these, when it feels like Harry's trying to claw into his skin—it almost feels like the passion is enough to give flight to some of those dreams.

"See you again tonight?" Harry's voice is full of promise.

Draco shivers at the low timbre of his voice. "Of course," his traitorous mouth agrees. He reaches for his discarded shirt, not quite managing to hide the slight tremor that runs through his body.

Draco is the one who ends up with most of his clothes off in their encounters, even though he always feels uncomfortable baring so much skin when Harry remains almost fully dressed.

Harry had laughed when Draco complained about it. "I can't help it," he had explained. "Uncovering one part just makes me want to uncover more and more." Harry then proceeded to very effectively demonstrate what he'd meant, exactly, leaving Draco incoherent and shaking around him.

Now, Harry frowns slightly as Draco drapes his thin uniform shirt around himself, beginning to button it up.

Draco catches the change in expression and pauses momentarily in his movements. "What's wrong?" His mind races. Does Harry want to go a second round? He isn't sure if he's up to it—his back is aching from being bent backwards over the table for so long, and his body is beginning to make its exhaustion felt—bone-deep and more than simple sex could account for.

Without replying, Harry removes his cloak and sweeps it around Draco, fastening it around his neck. Draco's fingers have frozen in shock. 

"Take that with you. You always get cold so easily."

Before Draco can say anything, Harry flashes him a small grin, and leaves. Draco knows, incredibly, irrevocably, that every second with Harry Potter is making it harder to pull away.

He still can't make himself stop.

~*~

After the third encounter that Draco's had to cut short because of sudden nausea, Harry is beyond panicked.

Draco is barely conscious of Harry's fingers stroking through his hair and his hand patting his back as he dry heaves on the floor. He feels like his magic is trying to crawl out of his throat, and his body clenches in sympathy. He's a hot, sweaty mess, arms trembling with his weight, and Harry is holding him, murmuring soft, comforting words into his ear, even though the stiffness of Harry's arms belies his anxiety.

Once the shaking subsides, Draco struggles into an upright position, Harry's arm firm around his shoulder. He hates himself for leaning so heavily on Harry as he works through the weakness, but he can't help himself from soaking in Harry's warmth and steady presence. Harry's fingers never stop carding through his hair.

Harry waits for Draco's laboured breathing to even out before he speaks. "Malfoy." He's in that determined, no-nonsense mode that Draco knows better than to argue with. "I'm taking you to Pomfrey."

Harry refuses to let him walk, so Draco's in this awkward bridal carry with a lightening charm cast on him, flushing red and avoiding the eyes of curious students and house ghosts as they head to the Hospital Wing.

Madam Pomfrey takes one look at them and immediately levitates Draco to an empty hospital bed, chasing Harry away. Harry doesn't leave though. Draco can see him standing beyond the curtains, pacing worriedly. Unbidden, warmth at his protectiveness suffuses Draco.

"…felt this way?" Madam Pomfrey is saying, the sound of her words finally cutting through his distraction.

Inanely, for a moment, Draco thinks she's asking about how he feels about Harry. _All this while,_ his brain helpfully supplies, providing pictorial evidence as well: Harry on the train in first year, shy and uncertain; Harry in classes, passing notes and exchanging remarks with Granger and Weasley, face alight with humour; Harry leading him into the Prefects' bathroom, quiet and secret and eyes shining with mischief.

"Pardon?" He knows that all his fear of discovery and helpless affection for Harry must show in his eyes, but is unable to suppress them.

Madam Pomfrey's expression is one of exaggerated patience. "Your symptoms, Mr Malfoy. When did they start?"

Draco hasn't thought much of his bouts of nausea and giddiness. His body hasn't been the best since the trials, always prone to sickness and headaches and wracked with nightmares, and worse still when he overexerts himself. A stint in Azkaban will do that to you. A Ministry-enforced parole will ensure that it stays that way. He's surprised that Harry still wants him, this beaten down, wretched soul.

"Maybe around a month ago?" Draco guesses. He tries to hold it in whenever he meets Harry—their time together is precious enough.

Madam Pomfrey runs some diagnostic spells on him and raises an eyebrow. Then she waves her wand again, this time making a concerned noise in her throat.

Draco feels his stomach clench in apprehension. "What is it?"

Madam Pomfrey repeats some of her earlier movements, and a low, pulsing orange glow appears around Draco momentarily, before it fades. She gives Draco a serious look, and throws up a silencing charm.

"Mr Malfoy. Have you been sexually active since the sanction?"

Draco freezes, then his heartbeat starts up again, twice as fast.

"That's—a very personal question," he hedges, stalling for time. Internally, his mind is racing. Impossible. How could it be so fast? He could have sworn he had another month or so. His mind is conjuring up dead-end scenarios, images of a suitcase in the snow, a last letter, one last glance at Hogwarts—and the person he's leaving behind.

Madam Pomfrey levels an unamused look at him. "Mr Malfoy. Please answer the question."

Draco closes his eyes against the sudden burning sensation that's flared up in his chest. "Yes."

"How frequently has that activity occurred?"

"Around two... or three times."

"Two or three times would not lead to such severe magical depletion, Mr Malfoy," Pomfrey snaps. "You've barely enough energy to lift yourself up. And I doubt it would lead to Mr Potter wearing a hole in my carpet from his anxious pacing."

Horror flashes across Draco's face, too raw and instinctive for him to block it, and he surges up, barely conscious of the strength he's using. "Madam Pomfrey—"

Pomfrey must see the panic on his face, because her expression softens. "Lie back down, Mr Malfoy. I assure you that I am not in the habit of compromising my patients' confidentiality. What goes on in my Hospital Wing remains in my Hospital Wing, as long as I have anything to say about it."

Her brisk tone cuts through Draco's fear, and he sinks back down into the pillows, feeling abruptly worn out.

"Mr Malfoy, I do, however, need you to be honest with me. I need to know the extent of the depletion I'm dealing with here. If it's severe enough, we may need to house you elsewhere. The amount of magical energy at Hogwarts is enough to negatively affect what little stores you have already."

Draco knows. A place like Hogwarts, intricately and finely crafted with protective wards, trap doors, moving staircases, magical portraits, and containing hundreds of students practicing spells and wand work can be draining for an average wizard, which is why first years begin with such basic spell work, and often still struggle to focus their energy. For someone who is magically ( _impaired_ , he doesn't think) challenged, it is even more difficult to maintain the basic level of energy engagement required.

He lifts his hand carefully and stares at it. It's trembling slightly, and the veins are blue where they're quietly carrying blood to his heart.

Pomfrey is still talking. "I am sure you are aware of the limits of the parole placed on you, and you know that your magical abilities are minimal now at best. Sexual activity with another wizard will further deplete those resources."

He knows. Of course he does. But it's _Harry_. Harry, for whom he has carried a torch since first year. Harry, who has the power to make Draco's heart trip all over itself and his tongue tie up in a stutter when he gets too near. Harry, who doesn't yet realise that his testimony at the trials was limited at best, and that the very attraction that he has to Draco is what's draining him.

And that's what will happen, with time. If Draco remains, he won't be able to stay away from the temptation. He can't deny Harry, because Harry is exactly what he wants as well.

He knows it would have been a matter of time. It's just sooner than he expected, that's all.

~*~

Draco levitates his belongings into his suitcases, and shrinks the lot. Only a tiny pewter dragon is left lying on his bed, lonely and nearly swallowed up in the sheets that he hasn't bothered to make.

He remembers the surprise he felt when Harry tossed the little dragon at him after one of their sessions together.

"Here," Harry said, as Draco reached out and caught the object instinctively. "That's for you."

"A present for my services?" Draco asked sarcastically, though his heart was beating wildly in his ribcage.

Harry snorted. "Who would ever be able to buy your services?"

"Certainly not you," Draco said, with perfect honesty. He studied the dragon carefully, and started when a stroke to its head caused the dragon to arch backwards and huff a little puff of fire. "Oh!"

Harry was grinning at his surprise. "Thought you'd like that."

Draco chose not to reply, but he knew the besotted expression on his face gave his pleasure away completely.

"You're so predictable, Malfoy," Harry said smugly.

"I'll show you predictable," Draco growled, but tucked his little dragon safely away before he launched himself at a laughing Harry.

Now, he makes himself leave the little dragon behind. There is no use hanging on to things that cannot be.

Draco contemplates leaving a note for Harry, or maybe just gazing in on him for one last time as he heads to the Great Hall—but no. It's better to just break it off cleanly. For both parties.

He's gone before the first snowflake falls.

~*~

Living on his own again isn't easy.

Draco's not alone in the technical sense of the word. He has his mother and Penny, the lone Malfoy house elf the Ministry allowed them to keep. Large portions of the Manor have been mortgaged off as compensation for the damages of the war, and Draco and his mother now occupy only a small cottage—after it had been stripped down and thoroughly examined for traces of dark magic, of course. It's tucked away in a corner of the Malfoy estate, once proud, now fractured and leased out to smaller families and a few motel businesses. Draco's father would have been outraged to see it, had he been alive to do so.

Draco doesn't mind as much as he thought he would. At least they were allowed this small dignity. Even though their cottage is cramped and claustrophobic compared to the wide halls and high ceilings of the Manor, Draco can't help but feel protective over it, the same way it seems to feel protective over him, hiding him within its walls.

In their small corner, with only one side path connecting them to the outside world, it's unexpectedly quiet. Draco spends his days sitting at the kitchen table, staring out of the window that shows the gravel path winding out the gate, waiting for winter, or waiting for footsteps—he doesn't know which. If his mother ever notices his forlorn gaze, she is considerate enough not to mention it.

They do most things the Muggle way now. The lack of the constant thrum of magical energy around him is a relief—at least his own low energy reserves no longer feel like they're on high alert, trying to manage a basic level of supply when the owner of the body keeps willingly allowing himself to be drained.

He sleeps dreaming of warm hands and a shy, disarming smile. The memory is gone by the time he wakes.

~*~

A week before Christmas, the Malfoys are awakened by an insistent pounding, and then the sounds of loud argument issuing from just outside their door. It's rare that someone would come all the way to their front door, and the first thought through Draco's head, still half-asleep and only halfway out of the night's dreams, is that it must be a horde of owls meant for Binny's Bed and Breakfast instead.

Narcissa is altogether unmoved by the din. When Draco stumbles blearily out of his bedroom, she is on her way is on her way down the hallway to begin her morning routine, seemingly unaware of the noise. "Could you have Penny bring the water to a boil, Draco?" she requests as she passes him. "I feel like some breakfast tea this morning."

Draco scrubs his hand over his face in an attempt to wake himself up, and drags himself into the kitchen to work out what's going on at their door. It's much too early for such a ruckus.

Just beyond the door, which is firmly shut and tingling with the sensation of magic, their house elf seems to be in the midst of an indignant defense of their cottage. "No sir, Penny is not allowing you to barge in like this! Masters are still sleeping, and you is being very noisy here!"

Draco chuckles despite himself. Only Penny would have the guts to state things so directly. Assured that everyhing is under control, he turns to grab the kettle off the table for the requisite tea.

"I told you, I just need to speak to Malfoy," replies an exasperated male voice, and Draco freezes in his tracks, grip tightening around the kettle in his hand. "I'm not going until I see him."

A flood of conflicting emotions fills Draco, and he blindly sets the kettle down, only to inch closer to the door and press his back against it. _Harry's here,_ he thinks. _He's here, on the other side of this door._ The knowledge makes him tremble with desire and fear.

Harry's voice is beginning to take on a dangerous tone now, and Draco wonders blankly if he would resort to destroying the cottage in order to get to Draco. The thought galvanises him into action, and he reaches out to grasp the doorknob. The house elf magic flares around him, then, as Draco insists mentally, unwillingly cedes to his request.

The door swings open to Harry's wild shock of dark hair, those too-green eyes alight with anger, and the round spectacles that make Draco's fingers itch to take them off his nose.

Harry's voice trails off as he sees Draco, and he makes an aborted move towards him, before stopping himself. "Malfoy." The word comes out strangled, and Draco can't tell if it's borne of frustration or annoyance or something else.

Draco makes an effort to remain calm and collected in his response, determinedly shoving aside his useless feelings. "Hello, Potter. Fancy seeing you—" _again_ "—here."

Emotions flit across Harry's face, too quickly for Draco to decipher. He can't tell if Harry wants to hit him or strangle him or kiss him. They stare at each other for what seems like a long while, not even moving when Penny squeezes past Draco to re-enter the kitchen, muttering under her breath.

The winter air is chilly, and Draco tugs his sleeping robes more firmly around himself, annoyed that he didn't grab something warmer before he opened the door. Harry's eyes follow the movement, and when he meets Draco's gaze again, he swallows convulsively. Draco feels a responding thump in his stomach, and the inevitable magnetic pull towards Harry.

"Mr Potter," comes his mother's voice, effectively breaking the spell. Draco jerks around to see Narcissa regarding Harry coolly. "Perhaps you would like to join us for breakfast, rather than making such a racket outside our door."

Draco shoots his mother a betrayed look, but Narcissa remains unruffled. She knows, more than anyone else, what Harry truly means to Draco.

"Er, good morning, Mrs Malfoy," Harry stammers, looking somewhat abashed. "Er—I'm sorry for all the noise."

"I'm sure you had a good reason," Narcissa replies smoothly, graciously accepting his apology. She glances at Draco with a look full of steel. _Fix it_ , her expression is saying. _Don't run away._

Draco knows when to admit defeat. He swallows a sigh, and unwillingly presses himself up against the door, making room for Harry to enter.

"This way, then, Potter," he says, tilting his head towards the kitchen in a semblance of invitation.

If he holds his breath when Harry slides in, their bodies almost touching, Draco gives no outward indication of it.

~*~

In the sitting room, the atmosphere is tense as Harry and Draco sit in armchairs opposite each other. His mother has left to get some tea, leaving the two of them in an electric, frazzled state of awkward tension. Harry is perched on the chair, eyes never leaving Draco. Draco, for his part, is uncomfortably trying to avoid Harry's steady green gaze, but is unable to keep from sneaking glances at him.

Harry, ever the Gryffindor, breaks the silence first by clearing his throat.

 _Why did you leave?_ Draco imagines he will say. He braces himself for the question.

"Have you been well?" Harry asks instead, twisting his hand in his jumper in that nervous gesture Draco has learned to read.

Draco is momentarily disarmed, and in an attempt to regroup, he replies more harshly than he intended. "Surely you didn't come all the way here to ask me how I am." He can't resist adding, "It's only been three months."

Harry jerks back like he's been shot. "That's not fair, Malfoy! _You_ were the one who left!"

"And if I left, wouldn't it mean that I didn't want to be found?" Draco snaps back, cold and haughty.

"You—you didn't want to be found?" Harry's eyes are beseeching, begging Draco. "But—why? I thought things were going well. Weren't we enjoying each other's company? Weren't we in lo—" Harry's voice breaks, and he tries again. "I thought this meant something to you, like it meant something to me. I... thought you loved—"

Draco cuts him off, unwilling and unable to hear what Harry's about to say. "Apparently," and his voice comes out bitter, "we had very different ideas about this relationship."

Draco nearly hesitates before saying the next few words, knowing what it would do to Harry—but he can't do this, he needs to break it off cleanly, he needs Harry to _go away and stop pretending_ that Draco was anything but a good fuck. 

"Come on, Potter. You know there was never anything real between us."

Harry's expression breaks. "What?"

"I said," Draco enunciates clearly, "that there was never anything there. I never felt anything for you."

Harry's eyes have lost their hunted expression, and now look stricken instead. "No." He shakes his head vigorously, green eyes blazing, boring into Draco. "You don't mean that."

There's a magical energy building in Harry, the same way it does whenever he gets overly angry or upset. Draco's body, kept safely away from over-stimulation all these months, begins to protest at the sudden reintroduction of magic. Harry will deny it, but he's still one of the most powerful wizards of their generation.

A deadly calm falls over Draco. _Harry has to leave. Now. Before he finds out._

"I think it's time for you to go." Draco's voice is as icy as he can make it. He feels a headache approaching, but he's able to take it, he's sure of it. He just needs to hang in there until Harry goes. "I believe you have overstayed your welcome."

Harry lifts his chin stubbornly. "I'm not going until you explain yourself."

 _Of all the times for him to get stubborn over something,_ Draco thinks, unfair in his bitterness. "Which I have already done. Several times since we began this conversation."

"You haven't explained why you put on this act," Harry presses on. "Why you—led me on like that."

There's a hitch in Harry's voice that Draco barely registers, because his headache is pounding. He lifts a couple of fingers to casually press against his temple, pretending that he's arranging his hair.

"As I have said before," Draco says, clenching his teeth. "I _never_ loved you." A sudden surge of pain causes his vision to start to black out at the corners. Half-blind and afraid he can disguise it no longer, Draco goes in for the kill. "You—were nothing more than a good fuck."

The burst of distressed outrage from Harry is enough to send Draco to his knees. Unexpectedly, Harry cries out in alarm at Draco's slumped form, concerned even in his hurt.

Draco can't quite make out what Harry is saying, over the surge of roaring in his ears.

"Get out of here," Draco grits out, not even knowing if Harry can hear him. Harry has the audacity to place one worried hand on his back, and Draco nearly screams—it feels like a million electric shocks where he touches. The hand flies off immediately.

His mother's voice seems to come from a distance. "Mr Potter, I must ask that you get yourself under control at once."

"What's wrong with him?" he thinks Harry says.

He doesn't hear the explanation, because, mercifully, he passes out.

~*~

When Draco wakes again, it's to fingers gently carding through his hair. He doesn't crack open his eyes, just pushes his head more insistently into the hand that's petting him, and snuggles more deeply into his bed. His head has stopped throbbing, and all that's left is a hint of exhaustion that's already beginning to wear off. He sighs.

"I've made a real hash of it, haven't I, Mother?" he mumbles into his pillow. The fingers still, and then start again. "It's just so hard to see him again, knowing—" His voice catches, and a hot tear courses its way down his face. He scrabbles at it, annoyed at himself.

A firm hand grasps his, where it's batting at his face, and Draco freezes in sudden realisation. That is not his mother's hand. Abruptly, he panics.

"Malfoy! No, Malfoy—Draco! Stop! Draco, I just want to speak to you!"

It's a good thing Harry has such a tight grip on his hand, because Draco is struggling, bucking wildly and trying to escape. Harry resorts to pinning Draco down with his own body. Though Draco is taller, Harry is stronger, and he soon realises that there is no contest. When Draco finally resigns himself to lying quietly beneath Harry, he realises that there were no sudden surges of energy throughout their tussle. Harry is calm.

"If I roll off, will you promise to stay until we're finished talking?"

Draco swallows. He may never escape if Harry makes him any Gryffindor promises. He's never been able to withstand them. "You have five minutes," he says hoarsely.

Harry waits for Draco's panting to subside before he speaks, stroking his fingers through Draco's hair—gingerly at first, then with more certainty when Draco doesn't protest. _It's the last time,_ Draco tells himself.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Draco shifts to look at Harry—but his expression isn't accusatory or angry, it's just bewildered. "Was there a reason I had to hear from your mother instead?"

"What... exactly, have you heard?"

Emotion flares in Harry's eyes then, but he visibly tamps it down. "I know about your magical intolerance."

"Then you'll know that I'm no better than a Squib right now."

"Don't say that!" Harry says forcefully, but his fingers remain gentle. "Why didn't you tell me the conditions of the parole? I could have done something."

Draco shifts into an upright position, and Harry lets his hand fall from Draco's head. Draco meets Harry's eyes.

"And what would that have accomplished? The papers would have started digging for dirt on why you were going so far for an ex-Death Eater—and this one in particular." It's the first time he's giving voice to his thoughts, and they feel raw and vulnerable laid out in front of Harry. "You know as well as I do that our—relationship would have been exposed."

"And so what if it were?" Harry challenges. "I—love you."

The words hang in the air as Draco stares at Harry in disbelief.

"What did you say?" Surely that strangled voice didn't come from Draco's throat.

Harry holds his gaze stubbornly. "I said I love you."

"Why say that now?"

"I should have said it earlier. I—I'm pretty sure you feel the same way too."

At a point like this, it seems futile to deny it any longer. "I'm no good to you like this, Harry," Draco whispers.

Harry tenderly brushes a few stray blond strands out of Draco's eyes. "No good to me like what, Draco?"

"Until it's lifted, I can't go back to Hogwarts. I drain too quickly, now. I can't even—have sex with you." The last few words are quiet and rushed, and Draco looks away, embarrassed.

"And what makes you think you're only good enough for me to have sex with?" Harry says, low and tight. "Did I ever give you that impression?"

Then he sighs when Draco winces at the buzzing of the magic beginning to fill the room. "Sorry, I'm still working on controlling my emotions."

Draco says quietly, "You can't even get upset or angry around me anymore. You have to force yourself to stay calm. Is this the kind of life you want?"

Harry studies him seriously. Draco feels his own heart sinking, and shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to see Harry's change of expression as the reality finally sinks in.

"Why do you always _do_ that?" Harry says instead.

Draco's eyes fly open, nonplussed. "Do what?"

"Push me away from you." Harry's face is unreadable.

"Maybe because, unlike you, I have some sense of self-preservation," Draco says sarcastically.

"Except..." Harry says, voice dropping, "you're not preserving yourself, are you?" His eyes are dark.

Unable to hold Harry's gaze, Draco drops his. Harry's right, he realises in horror. This has never been about himself. It has only ever been about Harry.

"Hey, it's okay," Harry says, reaching out to palm his cheek. "It's not the end of the world to discover that you've got some Hufflepuff in you."

Draco scowls darkly. "Trust you to make a joke at a time like this."

"But I'm serious, you know," Harry continues, as though the interlude had never happened. "Whatever it is, I know we can get through it together."

"Who's being the Hufflepuff now?"

"Don't be rude."

"Don't make me promises you can't keep," Draco retorts, but the crack in his voice gives away the fear amidst his traitorously burgeoning hope.

"What made you think I didn't want this?" Harry challenges. "What made you think you had to run? I know I should have said something earlier—but did you really think so little of me? Or—did you really think so little of yourself?"

Draco refuses to watch the realisation spill over Harry's face. Then Harry's fingers, warm and reassuring, turn Draco's face gently towards him until Draco is forced to meet those green eyes.

There's no condemnation or disappointment in Harry's eyes. There's nothing but love. Draco feels a tremor run through his body. It's almost too much to bear.

"Draco," Harry whispers, and Draco shuts his eyes, overwhelmed. "Please don't run away." And he leans in to capture Draco's lips gently.

It's been _so long_ , and Draco gives himself up to the sensation of Harry's lips against his, warm and slightly chapped, but so soft. Harry's tongue flits out and brushes over the seam of Draco's lips, a careful inquiry, and Draco parts them all-too-easily, allowing Harry access.

Draco's panting harder than he should be for this level of exertion, and Harry pulls back immediately, concerned.

"Well," Harry jokes, but his eyes are worried, "I guess this means I'll have to start learning how much you can take."

Draco gives Harry an ineffectual punch on his shoulder.

"Trust me," Harry promises. "I won't let you be hurt from this."

"I just knew you'd do that," Draco grumbles, trying to hide the delicious shiver he feels at Harry's words.

"What?" Harry says, baffled.

"Say something so Gryffindorish I'd have no choice but to cave in."

Harry stifles a laugh. "Oh, come on, Draco. You know you're just a Hufflepuff at heart."

Draco throws a pillow at him.

Two hours later, when Narcissa Malfoy looks in on her son, it's to find him peacefully sleeping in the arms of one Harry Potter, his hand curled protectively around Harry's arm. She smiles serenely to herself, and wanders off to make some more tea.

~*~

"Merry Christmas!"

"Go 'way, it's too early for this," Draco mumbles, burying himself more deeply into the covers. Judging by the amount of light coming through the curtains, it must be well into the day already.

"Come on, Draco," Harry wheedles, tugging at the quilt. Then he plays his trump card. "Don't you want to see what I got you for Christmas?"

Draco's head pokes out of the sheets.

Harry smirks in triumph. "I knew that would get you out."

"Where's my present?" Draco demands.

Harry's expression turns coy. "Don't I get a present in return as well?"

Draco's face falls. "I didn't prepare anything..."

"That's all right," Harry says easily. "After all, I was the one who dropped in without warning." A sly look enters Harry's eyes. "But I wouldn't say no to a good morning kiss…"

Draco scrunches his nose, and gives Harry a brief peck on his cheek. "There. That's all you're going to get. Now where's my present?"

"So bossy," Harry scolds, then he looks somewhat bashful as he draws a wrapped box out. "Here, you brute. Enjoy your present."

He tosses it at Draco, who catches it in horror. "Harry! Why are you always throwing my presents at me?"

"Better than throwing myself at you," Harry mutters, half under his breath. Then to Draco, he orders, "Open it!"

Draco can't hide the delighted surprise he always feels when he receives a present. Slowly, he tugs off the green ribbon holding the present together, and then slides a careful finger under the shiny red wrapping paper.

"You're killing me with the suspense here," Harry says, with a breathless laugh. "And I was the one who wrapped it!"

"Patience, Potter," Draco admonishes, easing the paper open. "Opening presents is an art in itself."

When he finally lifts the lid on the box, he is left staring speechless at the tiny pewter dragon, lying cushioned inside the box. Lying on top of it is a shimmering platinum band, just thick enough to fit snugly around his wrist. Draco lifts it in curiosity.

"Er, it's a magic dampener," Harry says, rushing to explain. "You just wear it around your wrist, and it lessens your sensitivity to the magic around you." At Draco's lack of response, Harry hurriedly snags it from Draco's hand. "Here, let me put it on you."

Draco registers the sudden mutedness of the magical buzzing surrounding him as the band slips around his left wrist with a snap, but his attention is elsewhere.

"Harry—"

"What?" Harry looks worried. "Do you hate it?"

Draco lifts the pewter dragon out of the box, and shows it to Harry. "Where did you get the dragon from?"

"I didn't put that in there." There's a confused expression on Harry's face.

"I left it behind," Draco says around the lump in his throat, still staring at the little dragon. "When I left Hogwarts."

"Oh," Harry says enigmatically. His fingers pick at a loose thread on the bedspread.

Draco studies Harry's face with suspicion. "What are you not saying?"

"Well, that's what it's supposed to do, you know." Harry coughs, and won't quite meet Draco's eyes. "It's charmed to always find its way back to you. Like I would." That last part is mumbled.

Draco stares. "And you didn't think of telling me this earlier? Maybe when you gave it to me?"

"I thought you'd find it cheesy," Harry says defensively.

"You're right," Draco drawls. "I do find it cheesy." As Harry's face falls, Draco leans in closer. "But, as you've advised, I'm learning to embrace my inner Hufflepuff."

A smile breaks over Harry's face, and Draco thinks inanely it lights up the whole room. "Come on then, Dracopuff."

Draco scowls. "You're lucky I like you so much."

"You're wrong," Harry states matter-of-factly. "You _love_ me."

Draco doesn't bother to correct him. Because it's true.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment here or at [LiveJournal](http://slashedsilver.livejournal.com/27106.html)!


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